


The Cup Offered

by GatewayGirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-24
Updated: 2011-09-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9413081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GatewayGirl/pseuds/GatewayGirl
Summary: After the war, Draco finds himself not only on the losing side, but not as impressive as he had been raised to believe. It's hard to see past that.(HP/DM vibes)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round four of the Potterverse Tarot fest (http://hp-tarot.dreamwidth.org)  
>  **Card:** Four of Cups  
>  **Card Interpretation:** What you truly desire is available to you, but you do not see it. Discontent and uncertainty blind you to what is offered. Apathy after a long struggle. Negative attitudes strain relationships. Possible affairs. Change is needed.  
>  **Canon-Compliancy:** Original series

# The Cup Offered

 

"It was not that bad," Arsenius Jigger said amiably, the gentle humor so unlike Severus Snape's acerbic wit. "Good enough to use, certainly. Not, however, good enough to sell. In all, about what I would expect of a young man just out of school." 

Draco looked away. What was wrong with him? He had been _brilliant_ at Potions in school. Now, with his fortunes so reduced that he needed an actual job, he could not make it past the first level of apprentice brewer at Slug and Jigger's apothecary. He had been certain that within a week, he would be a journeyman at the shop. 

"Stick to the category four and five bases for now," Mr. Jigger said, more briskly. "I'll test you again in six months." 

"Yes, sir," Draco forced out. He had to be polite. An employer was like a professor -- more powerful, even, because there were no other professors to protect you. There was Mr. Slug, of course, but he wasn't someone who could be played against Jigger, and it was Jigger, really, who favored Draco. "Shall I start on more salve base, then?"

"Later, yes," Mr. Jigger said. "First, though, the stock of bulk ingredients needs neatening. See that there's no cross-bin contamination, and then sweep when you're done. The brewing can wait until after that." 

Really, Draco thought bitterly, he was only a first-level apprentice half the time. The rest of his work hours, he was really a superior sort of house elf -- one who knew the difference between Devil's Snare seeds and beetle eyes, and that mermaid scales that fell in the latter could be put back in their barrel, but that ones that had fallen into the former needed to be thrown out. He wondered why they were kept next to each other. Shouldn't the Devil's Snare seeds be over by Golden Fern seeds? Though that, he supposed, would leave mermaid scales by Kelpie Weed, a more destructive combination. He scowled. He shouldn't even have to think about this! 

Why couldn't he do better? Was it the loss of his wand? Though wands, as Professor Snape had been so ready to point out, had little to do with the brewing of potions. For a moment, Draco allowed himself to think about Snape -- bolder and more selfless than he seemed, he had got Draco out of Hogwarts after his disastrous failure with Dumbledore, and then -- in the most admirably sideways manner -- spoken well of him to the Dark Lord, taking a Cruciatus for his pains, but perhaps keeping Draco and his parents from execution. 

And later, when Draco had come to make amends.... Draco jerked his thoughts away from the memory. Why was he thinking of Snape, now? Ah. Wands. Snape had always said that wands didn't matter. Of course, Snape had also said he was brilliant at potions, while Mr. Jigger seemed to regard him as merely average. Professor Slughorn had as well. Draco shuddered to a stop in mid-swipe of the beetle eyes. What if it was true? What if he had just been the most intelligent student in his year of Slytherin, and thus the best way to give points to Slytherin? A few months ago, he would have considered that absurd, but now....

His eyes rose, looking out through the window, focusing on nothing. The world, however, wouldn't even let him sulk in peace. It was impossible not to notice when a short, plebian, messy-haired _hero_ walked through his field of vision. Potter! His old nemesis looked like he hadn't a care in the world, which he probably hadn't. No one would hesitate to hire him -- _if_ he had needed a job, which he didn't. It turned out that between being the last heir of the House of Potter and the last heir of the House of Black, Potter had almost as much money as Draco had expected to. Draco had no idea why he had spent most of school looking like a pauper. Solidarity with the Weasel, maybe. 

It wasn't the Weasel with him now, though -- not even the Weaselette. The Hero of the Second Voldemort War had Hermione Granger hanging off his arm like a pretty toy, rather than the brilliant intellectual who had made Draco second-best. They were talking animatedly and smiling, lost entirely in each other. 

It was _them_ , Draco thought suddenly, his throat closing. Professor Snape's praise of him hadn't been because he deserved it, or even to give Slytherin points. It had been to irritate Potter -- and to some degree, Granger. What if he really _wasn't_ more than competent? 

Second best, he thought bitterly, as a customer walked by him with a perceptible sniff. He would be thankful to be second best now, rather than average to Jigger and down in the dregs of contemptible to the average customer. People who didn't hate him for following the Dark Lord hated him for expressing regrets before the Wizengamot. What else could they expect him to do? The Dark Lord certainly hadn't stood by him! He had been a madman who had ruined his family and desecrated their home. Draco lifted his eyes again, looking out the window, but Potter, damn him, and Granger, were just disappearing around the corner. 

He was lost. Six months more at his current wage! That would barely cover expenses. Taxes on the manor were paid automatically by a fund his grandfather had established for that purpose, but they had raided the surplus for repairs, so there was nothing left in there for anything else. The family, with his father unable to leave the grounds and in his cups too often to scheme a path to regaining standing, was dependent on what Draco could earn. At his current wage, that was barely enough to feed the three of them, and he had hoped for more. His mother's robes were already a year old; could she endure another two seasons of such humiliation? And _that_ was if Draco spent nothing on himself, and if the cellars held up to his father's forays. 

 

At the end of the day, Draco didn't want to return home, to his father's bleary withdrawal and his mother's anxious praise, but the alternative was to walk out onto the street, into a world of shops, and possibly Potter. As much as he might want a new wand, one that suited him, he didn't have the gold for that, so there would be no temptation. On the other hand, the coins in his pocket would be adequate to a cream-filled cake or a Quidditch magazine, and he knew he liked acquiring things when he was feeling down. Resolutely, he stepped into the employee Floo, and stepped out in the anteroom of Malfoy Manor. 

The room showed no traces of the Dark Lord's rages and Aunt Bellatrix's madness. Draco had wanted to change everything about it, but they hadn't had the budget for new furniture. Replacing the torn and blasted wall coverings, however, had been a necessity, and his mother had agreed about change. Rather than the former green brocade, they were now a medium blue, with the trim painted in two darker blues accented by a deep golden yellow. His mother looked lovely standing in front of them, and Draco suspected that he did, as well. 

She wasn't waiting for him, as she sometimes did. That meant that she was upstairs working on her hats. It had become an obsession of hers, taking apart items that were out of fashion and working them into incredible creations. She always showed them to Draco when they were complete, but he had never seen her wear one again after he gave it his approval. She hardly had invitations to appropriate venues, these days, and he supposed it was a little silly to wear elaborate hats around the house, but he wouldn't have minded if it made her feel better. 

Draco walked through the open double doors into the front hall, and turned right, passing the drawing room, and then his father's study. The door was closed, as it always was now. His father had refused to let them do anything to the room, even though there were broken shelves on one side and charred books on the floor, so his mother simply shut the door and told their remaining House Elf, Mippy, to ignore it. Draco wasn't sure his father would notice if he slipped in and repaired everything; certainly, he never entered the study himself. Still, it stayed there, like a sore under a plaster. 

Up in his room, Draco removed his work clothes, showered fumes and dust and powdered beetle eyes off his skin, brushed his hair, and dressed for dinner. That done, he settled himself in his favorite chair and clapped his hands twice. Mippy appeared and bowed. 

"Report," Draco instructed her, as he did every night. 

"We is needing flour," Mippy said with a nervous nod. "Also, dinner is using the last fruit, and bacon is only meat left." 

"Flour, fruit, meat," Draco repeated, as if he were memorizing potion ingredients. He summoned his wages from the last three days and held the scant coins in his hand, wondering what they would buy. Not much, he thought. "Very well," he said, passing the coins over. "We'll need lamb, and something ... oranges, perhaps. Anything else?"

"Is Master Draco wanting suggestions?" Mippy asked, and Draco's whole body twitched as he moved to strike her for impudence, but there was no thought backing the reflex, and he caught himself. Taking suggestions from a House Elf could hardly be more humiliating than budgeting for groceries. 

"Go ahead," he said stonily, and Mippy, who had cringed back, uncurled, her ears not quite straightening with her spine. 

"Apples is the cheapest fruit, this time of year, and if Mippy buys extra flour and sugar, instead of oranges, Mippy can make dumplings and tart."

"Oh." Draco supposed that made sense. "Good. Apples would be fine." Of course, it was autumn. He just wasn't in school. 

Emboldened, she nodded slightly, one ear extending. "Chickens and fish is cheaper than mutton," she burst out, and then skittered back nervously. 

Draco sighed. "Very well. As long as it's not every meal." He cleared his throat. He wasn't supposed to have to know these things! "Thank you, Mippy. Shop as you see fit." 

Her eyes widened to the size of saucers just as he realized what he had said. Before he could decide what to do, she squealed with delight. "Master is so kind!" she exclaimed, and disappeared with a pop. 

Draco rubbed his forehead. He had gone into shop boy mode with his own Elf. How humiliating! On the other hand, no one had seen, and if it inspired her to be creative, it would be worth it. He scowled, and wondered if she would serve up a diet of beans, instead.

With no further reason to tarry, Draco started down to dinner. His mother was already on the patio outside the dining room, holding a glass of white wine like a prop. Her hat, a strangely attractive creation of stiffened net, was resplendent with iridescent little feathers that wound up the shortened point in a soft spiral, its path bisected by the quill of a magnificent pheasant tail feather, which arched from gold into dark green. Tiny crystals -- which Draco suspected were scavenged from one of the destroyed chandeliers, perhaps even _that_ one -- hung from the brim, tinkling against smaller gold circles -- from a necklace, perhaps? as his mother turned to smile at him. 

"Good evening, dearest." 

Draco wondered if his father resented that. "Good evening, Mother," he said politely. "The hat is lovely."

"Thank you, darling."

"You should wear it tomorrow," he said quickly, before he lost his nerve. As he had expected, she laughed. 

"What a thought! Come, tell me about your day." 

Scowling, he sat down, and Mippy appeared, bringing him a glass of wine to match his mother's. Draco appreciated that it was a small one. Good form was important, but there was no room for waste, now. "The same as the last three weeks," he said. "Rude shoppers, a messy workspace, and being treated as a barely worthy apprentice." Although he wanted to hide his humiliation, being _asked_ was not to be borne, so he stumbled ahead. "Jigger evaluated my work, but says I'm not ready for more complex tasks. It was horrible, Mother! He thinks I'm _average_ ; he actually said so."

"Oh, darling, I wouldn't fret about it!" she exclaimed sympathetically. "Just consider his idea of average, spending all his time with professionals."

Draco didn't want to think about that. He had expected to impress professionals with his youthful brilliance when he deigned to dabble in such things. "Professor Snape said I excelled in my skill and understanding." 

She laughed, the sound brittle in the cooling air. "As we now know, Professor Snape said many things, to many people."

Draco didn't have a reply for that. In the aftermath of Snape's defense of him, and watching Snape's contained power as Voldemort's new favorite, he had found the devious man strangely attractive. During the summer, in a fit of penance and need, he had once gone to the man's bed, though he did not think anyone else knew. Snape had seemed to regret it the next day, turning Draco away with a mutter about the follies of too much brandy. As headmaster, he had explicitly stated that further advances would not be acceptable, but had also returned to a more restrained version of the favoritism he had shown to Draco before their fights of Draco's sixth year. Draco would never know what might have happened after school, and now, of course, there was Harry Potter in the papers, proclaiming Snape a hero of the resistance, who had brought him the Sword of Gryffindor while he was in hiding. Draco wondered bitterly if there were details to Snape's visit that he did not reveal.

"You look lost, darling." 

Draco certainly _hoped_ his mother did not know. 

"I just-- It was inconvenient of him to die!" he exclaimed. He had needed to say something, but hadn't expected what burst out to sound so petulant. "Now I'll never know what he meant, what he intended...." 

"Indeed," his mother agreed. "If there is, in fact, an afterlife, the soul of Severus Snape will have a long queue of people waiting to question him for many decades to come." Adjusting her new hat, she turned to the balustrade and the downs beyond. The borders of Muggle fields sent green lines cascading down the gentle curves. "Now relax, darling, and watch the sunset with me. I adore this time of year, when the sinking sun turns the grove to bronze."

It wasn't a bad description. The dark and dying leaves of the grove she meant, still on their land, were gilded by the golden sun. Draco sighed. 

"Yes, Mother. The sun is setting." 

For just a moment, her face was sharp as she glanced at him.

"Just _thinking_ about that man infects you with his sourness, Draco. We have the Manor, and it is once again truly ours. _Do_ try to appreciate it." 

"The Manor, yes, but--" He stopped himself. He wanted to ask how they would eat, and beyond that, if they would ever again possess the resources to entertain visitors, but it would not be worth it. His mother was happy, her light madness harmless, and he would not destroy her contentment with his own harsh realities. "It is very lovely," he agreed instead, and she patted him softly on the arm. Looking down on the gardens, he tried to find something to comment on. A few little deer emerged from the edge of the little woods and began nosing around the base of a small tree. The grass was longer than it should be. 

"How are we going to maintain it all?" he burst out, dismayed. "The Ministry made us free Shrubbit." 

"Did I not tell you to stop worrying?" his mother scolded. "I'm a clever witch, Draco, and there are many effective spells for that sort of thing." Draco looked up, but her smile faded as he nodded. "It would be a _tad_ easier if your father would help," she said, sounding, at last, a tiny bit hurt. 

"Ah." 

Draco didn't know what to say about Father. If his mother's madness was harmless and bright, his father's was unpredictable and dismal. He was saved from the awkward subject by the appearance of Mippy. 

"Dinner is being ready, Mistress," she said, dipping in a hurried curtsey before Narcissa. 

"Very good, Mippy. Draco?" She turned up her hand, and he offered his arm, escorting her into the dining room as if his father was away, rather than simply without the decency to see to his duties as the master of the house. 

Lucius, indeed, turned out to be already seated. He hadn't been so crass as to uncover the serving dishes, but his hair was undone, his overrobe rumpled, and his cravat stained by red wine. As he pushed his mother's chair in, Draco saw her wand flick out under cover of the table, cleaning and straightening the cravat. His father, apparently feeling, but not recognizing, the quiver of fabric, frowned. 

"Home, are you?" he asked Draco, punctuating the query with a tip of his wineglass. "Not that I meant--" His eyes shifted away, and he took a quick swallow. 

"Am I ever not home for dinner, Father?" Draco reproved, his heart hammering.

"You are a good son, Draco," his father said. "A fine son. Even...." 

His vague wave conveyed nothing, but Draco knew what he meant. He was humiliated to have Draco in trade, although he would never admit it. How his mother continued to be gracious about it, Draco did not know. Years of praising Mrs. Parkinson's gowns, perhaps. His father, by contrast, could not bear to speak of the matter. Draco let it go, commenting lightly on the weather and current events, carrying on a civil conversation with his mother as if his father were not there, staring gloomily into his dark wine. 

 

They had just finished dinner with scant servings of a surprisingly good cheese when Mippy appeared in the doorway. 

"Master Draco is having a visitor!" she squeaked. 

"Visitor?" Lucius growled. "I didn't feel the wards." 

"We had to take most of them down, darling," Narcissa reminded him. "Don't you recall? We have only Muggle-repelling and theft-prevention charms, now."

"Deplorable lack of personal protection," Lucius muttered, and Draco rose. He would be better off meeting the visitor, whomever it might be, alone. 

"Front drawing room," he whispered to Mippy as he came to the door, and she vanished with a nod.

 

When he got there, they were awaiting him. Mippy bowed and departed, and the guest turned from the portrait he had been examining. 

"Potter!" 

Potter looked amused. "Hi, Malfoy."

Draco forced his shocked brain to resume thinking. Potter wasn't an Auror, or even in Auror training -- the papers had disapproved enough to remark on it repeatedly. Recently, with elections starting, he had spoken at a few events for the Rebuilding Britain party, which was widely seen as support for Kingsley Shacklebolt. As the Malfoys were about as likely to vote for a rabid stoat as one of Dumbledore's old cronies, he could hardly be here on political business. Draco had a momentary wistful memory of Dumbledore offering to help him, but pushed it back. He had not taken the offer, and it was far too late now. 

"What do you want?" he demanded, and Potter had the effrontery to roll his eyes. 

"Just returning something," he said, and pulled out a wand. 

Jumping back, Draco drew his own. A dive would put him behind the sofa.... Potter, though, was flipping the wand in his hand, extending it hilt first. 

"Calm down, will you? It's yours."

It was. Now that the moment to fight had passed, he could _feel_ it. Slowly, Draco stepped forward and reached out his hand. The hawthorn was not as warm as he remembered, but it slid comfortably into his hold. 

"Took you long enough." 

Potter snorted. "Honestly! I haven't been hoarding it, Malfoy, it was just a while before I dealt with the things I was carrying that day." 

"Because my wand isn't important?" Draco snapped.

"I didn't even remember it was there! I rolled everything into a bundle and sent it off to Grimmauld place with Kreacher. I didn't go back until Remus's memorial service, last week." He shrugged. "I didn't want to think about it." 

Draco didn't see why Potter wouldn't want to think about that day; he had won, hadn't he? He turned the smooth wood in his hand, wondering if it was just his imagination, or if the wand was ignoring him. 

"Good job redecorating, by the way," Potter remarked nonsensically, and Draco looked around at the room. Like the entrance hall, it had been repainted, but the furnishings were scavenged from other parts of the house. Draco's father had destroyed the bloodied sofa rather than cleaning it, and Draco had replaced it with the loveseat and chair from a guest suite. The wood didn't match the side table. 

"I do what I can with limited resources," he said coldly. 

"Oh, Mr. Potter!" 

It was his mother, her voice sparkling like a dusting of sugar. Her fantastical new hat was held in her hand, and Draco knew he would never see her wear it again. 

"How good to see you!" To Draco's dismay, she inclined her head as if Potter was her equal. "I am delighted to have you in my home under happier circumstances."

Potter brightened. Draco hadn't realize how stiffly he had been standing until the tension faded away. 

"Good to see you too, Mrs. Malfoy," he said. He gestured around him. "I'm glad it doesn't all look like it did, actually." 

"We felt much the same," she confided, briefly taking his hand. It was disgusting, Draco decided. Perhaps it was just as well she stayed in. 

"Draco, darling," she warbled, "I'm sorry to interrupt. I'm sure you had much more to say to your visit--"

"No," he clipped out. "We were done." He turned on his heel. "Mippy will show you out, Potter." 

He sent Mippy in to do that, but she returned pulling her ears and saying that Mistress Narcissa was still speaking to the guest. Snarling, he rescinded the order. They had only one House Elf -- it was no good to have her disabling herself over contradictory commands. 

 

 

His mother caught him as he was leaving breakfast in the morning. Father, he knew, would be in bed for hours yet, but Mother made an effort join him for at least one cup of tea every morning. 

"Draco, darling? I really must speak to you about your conduct last night."

"Conduct?" he questioned incredulously. 

"Towards Harry."

Draco sputtered. "Mother! That's _Potter_! Harry Potter, the bullheaded prat who felled the Dark Lord?"

"Precisely," she answered coolly. "And when someone in a position of power does you an unwarranted favor, it is good practice to express gratitude."

"Favor-- what? Returning my wand? It's _mine_ , and he kept it for months!" 

"You know quite well it is not _yours_ once you lose it in combat. He was under no obligation to return it at all. Furthermore, by your own account, he saved your life from your friend's stupidity. Have you ever acknowledged that?" 

Draco looked away, his jaw tightening. He had tried to write a note, but the whole thing had been far too humiliating. Also, it made him remember the whole experience -- not just his terror and loss, but the sickening thrill of pressing tight against Potter's adversity-hardened body while they flew through the inferno at breakneck speed. 

His mother made the little tongue click that signaled she was losing patience. "I will take that as a no," she said sharply. "When you return from work tonight, you will write him a letter, thanking him for the return of your wand, and also for saving your life. I will not have you rebuff such a magnanimous gesture."

Draco's teeth hurt. He forced his jaw open. "Yes, Mother." 

"Good. Now run along, darling, and do your best to have a pleasant day." 

 

 That, Draco thought gloomily, as he stared at the clutter of ingredients and supplies in the shop lab, was beyond possible. He had three hours until Brand went to lunch, which was twice as much time as he needed to make salve base. If he organized the central shelves first, surely that would improve his efficiency? Perhaps that was why his brewing was off! The drab, disorganized environment was distracting him at critical moments. Carefully, he began to move all of the items from the shelves to the workbench, taking care which he put in proximity. 

An hour later, he had two central shelved cleared, cleaned, and restocked in the same order Professor Snape had used, and all that was left on the workbench were a few stray things that had been pushed to the back of the shelves but did not belong there (including, disgustingly, what had once been a cup of tea) and a small, empty wide-mouth jar from a crate he had that he had found when fetching more Murtlap essence from the storeroom. A gleam of blue, just visible through the slats, had caught his eye, and he had pulled out a jar and brought it back to wash. The grime of many years had rubbed away to reveal beautiful cobalt-blue glass. 

At the sound of footsteps lumbering down the wooden stairs, Draco hurriedly cleared the work surface and pulled out a cauldron. He was industriously chopping waxweed when Mr. Jigger came into the room. 

Draco was dreading being asked why he was behind, and hoping for some admiring words on the gleaming, orderly shelves just above the workbench. Instead, Jigger, without seeming to notice either circumstance, plopped down a cauldron in the small amount of empty space, making the gelatinous mass inside quiver. 

"Bottle this," he said. "One ounce glass jars, label 'eyelid gel.'"

Draco frowned at the substance. It shimmered, suggesting it might be pretty in brighter light. "What does it do?" 

"Clears up tenderness and bruising in the eye area," he said proudly. "My own formula -- I've been working on it for months! I'd like it out before the lunch rush comes." 

Draco bit his lip, but nodded. If he skipped his break and worked on the packaging while his solution was simmering, he might be able to get both tasks done. 

"Right away, sir," he said, with all the enthusiasm he could feign, and Jigger gave him an approving nod before leaving the room. 

While Draco was preparing the ingredients for salve base, working as rapidly as he dared, he found his attention darting to the polished blue jar, now sitting at the front of the shelf. It looked as if it would hold about an ounce. The pretty glass would attract attention, especially if the substance inside shimmered tantalizingly. He resolved that if the measurement wasn't too far off, he would use the blur jars. Judging by the grime, they weren't needed for anything else. 

When his potion was simmering, he tested the size. The blue jar held only three quarters of an ounce, but he decided that was close enough. Any larger and people would think it was no good. Draco thought about that for a moment. He didn't actually know that it was. Conjuring a mirror, he looked at his own eyes and to his disgust, realized that after a night of fuming about Potter, he could test the substance on himself. His eyes weren't extreme, by any means, but there was visible shadow under the left one. Carefully, he smoothed a dab of the gel on and let out an involuntary sigh. It felt lovely! Not only that, but when he looked again, there was no trace of shadow. 

He found some unfolding labels and turned them a delicate pink. In his brewing log, he tried out samples of text. When he had settled on one, he wrote it out on a label using his finest script. After three attempts, he finally had a perfect specimen.

_~ Fresh Eyes ~_

_The next best thing to a good night's sleep!_

_Soothe away dark circles and puffy lids with a single stroke_

 

Once satisfied, he magically reproduced the text onto the other labels. He was half-done with packaging the lot when the timer for his salve base went off. Gasping, he cut the heat below his cauldrons. Working frantically, he rushed to stabilize the solution before it over-processed the Murtlap essence. It was touch and go for a few minutes, but he was able to save all of it. 

Just as he was setting the last cauldron aside, Jigger returned. 

"Nearly time to head up front, Malfoy! Is the eyelid gel ready?"

Trying to look confident, Draco held out one of the jars. "Half of it." 

Jigger didn't even look at the elegant label. "This isn't an ounce! I said an ounce!"

"But the elegance--" 

"Who cares about elegance!" 

Draco lost it. "People who buy cosmetics!" he snapped out. "This will sell _far_ more than if I put it out in the usual brown jars." 

Jigger sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh you think so, do you?" 

His heart hammering, Draco raised his head. "I am quite certain." 

"Very well. Half done, you say? Package the other half the _way I told you to_ , and set them both out, at the same price. We'll see which sells better."

Draco let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Agreed, sir." 

Jigger, who had been leaving, turned at the base of the stairs. "If it's yours, I won't dock you a day's pay." 

That was a real threat, but Draco pushed it to the back of his mind, telling himself he was confident in his theory. Furthermore, Jigger hadn't said the two displays needed equal placement. He put the brown jars on a shelf near other skin creams, and then arranged the blue jars in a pyramid on a table across from the door, so that they caught the light from the windows. 

The door jangled, signaling the arrival of a customer. Draco turned, eager to see if his display garnered interest. "May I --" emerged from his lips, stalling there as he saw who it was, and hope fled. 

"Help?" Potter suggested. "I hope so. What can I get in multiple doses of Pepper-Up?" 

He certainly looked like he needed multiple doses, Draco thought. Mustering some scorn, he wondered if possibly a case of Hangover Remedy would be more appropriate. 

"Something specific may be more efficacious," he said smoothly. "What is the nature of the problem?" 

"Huh?"

Draco gathered his patience. To his dismay, he heard himself make the same little tongue-click that his mother did. To cover it, he quickly began speaking. "Pepper-Up is a general tonic for enhancing energy," he explained. "So you can use it for lack of sleep, or for when you are well-rested but staying up late, or to help stave off an encroaching illness, or to counter over-indulgence in substances with a sedative after-effect. However, all of these things have more specific treatments."

"Ah," Potter said, brightening slightly. "Lack of sleep, then." 

"Chronic, or project-driven?" 

Potter's eyebrows came up. "Nosy on your home turf, aren't you? Chronic. From nightmares more than anything, so don't suggest changes to my bedtime." 

"Nightmares!" Draco was too startled to be offended. "What would give _you_ nightmares?" 

Potter laughed joylessly. "Oh, I don't know. A lifetime of being stalked by a homicidal Dark wizard? Watching people I loved die, just because they were near me? Being tortured by Cruciatus? Take your pick, Malfoy." He turned away, absently running a hand over the rounded tops of the blue glass jars. "The Battle of Hogwarts didn't help, certainly, but it's been bad for years, on and off."

"Oh." Draco stepped forward. Except for the two of them, the shop was empty. "I still dream of Vince sometimes," he said, offering the revelation as an apology. "And the fire." 

Potter, to his credit, didn't say that Vince had started it, just gave a tired nod. "That one too." 

"Since we're on the subject," Draco said, steeling himself to continue, "Thank you. For saving me and Greg." He bit his lip shut against saying more, and hoped that Potter wouldn't try to draw out this victory. Instead, Potter shrugged, which was almost more offensive than gloating. 

"Wasn't going to leave you there," he muttered, and then made a face. "So," he prompted. "The right potion?" 

And that, Draco thought, put him firmly in his place -- the shop boy. "In your case," he said, delaying to conceal his dismay, "it seems Dreamless Sleep would be inadvisable." 

"Yeah. Not interested in acquiring an addiction, thanks." 

"Do you take a daily nutritive potion?"

Potter looked puzzled. "Like vitamins?" 

"Something to enhance your diet and your body's processing of it," Draco explained. He wasn't going to ask what 'vitamins' was, or were. "That will help to some degree." He stepped over to a shelf and pulled off a narrow-mouthed jar, then moved on to the next one. "Also, a mild calming potion for just before bed. It won't prevent dreams, but it should lessen the frequency of traumatic ones."

"Right, but I need--"

"To stay awake," Draco interrupted, "a spritz of Alertness Elixir." He scooped up the larger bottle and handed it to Harry. "I suggest the spritz because the effect is short-lived. You may need to use it multiple times, but when you do stop repeating it and go to bed, you won't be kept awake by residual substances."

"Great," Potter said. "Um--"

"Also," Draco added, picking up one of the blue jars, "a cream for the bruising under your eyes."

Predictably, Potter scowled. "I'm not worried about my looks, Malfoy." 

Draco sniffed. "I'm not suggesting you enter a beauty contest, Potter. But everyone knows that you're campaigning for Shacklebolt's Rebuilding Britain party, and if you look haggard, it raises speculation that he's in trouble." 

Potter blinked, and then straightened. "That has nothing to do with it!"

"And you and I know that. Probably most of your friends do, as well. But the public at large doesn't, and _perception matters_. Eventually, if it looks like he's in trouble, he will be."

"Ah." Gingerly, Harry took the jar. He tilted it, squinted at the label, and sighed. "All right, then. Chuck it in with the others." His eyebrows lifted. "Do you work on commission?" 

Draco snorted. "No. Perhaps I should suggest it." 

Potter followed him to the counter and watched him tally the potions. He hadn't actually asked what any of them cost and Draco was tempted to overcharge him and pocket the difference, but he knew that the risk wouldn't be worth the reward. If he was caught cheating Harry Potter, he would lose this job and not find another. 

Any decent person would have taken their potions and left, but Potter continued to lean on the counter after putting the bundle in his sack. 

"How well did you know Snape?" he asked suddenly, and Draco felt every muscle in his body stiffen in alarm. What did Potter suspect? 

"Not at all, apparently." Bitterness overwhelmed the dry humor he had tried for, and Potter sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. 

"Right. It would be even worse for you, I suppose. For me ... There's so much I want to ask, and I can't."

"Join the club." 

A little too loudly, Potter laughed. "Imagine that. You and I have something in common." 

Draco glared across the counter at him. Was he _trying_ to be insulting? "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Hanging around to gloat over my change in fortunes? You're just waiting for someone to walk in here, so you can put me in my place."

Potter frowned. "Of course not! I'd _thought_ I was being friendly." 

"We were _never_ friendly."

"Yes, but...." Potter took a deep breath. "It's over, right?"

Draco glared. Never one to take a hint, Potter babbled on. "And you're actually talking to me, now that you don't have Voldemort and your daddy and your goons to threaten me wi--"

Draco's breath hissed in loudly, and Potter's eyes widened. 

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "That was rude." 

Draco actually glanced back, for a moment thinking that Snape must be standing behind him. He wasn't, of course. Even if he had lived, he wouldn't be Potter's professor anymore, and even as his professor, he more frequently inspired Potter to defiance rather than panic. 

"Yes," he said coldly. "It was," and at the look of dismay on Potter's face suddenly understood that the idiot regretted offending him. _Why?_ he wondered. What could Potter possibly want from him that it mattered? He must have something of value that had escaped his notice. Perhaps Potter needed untraceable potions ingredients? He wasn't sure he could manage that, as close as Slug's accounting was, but perhaps he could string him along for a little while -- long enough to get some benefit. 

"It's just--" Potter stopped and took a long breath. "You _were_ annoying," he said defensively, ducking his head and smiling up at Draco. It was an irritatingly charming look on him. 

"And you still are," Draco snapped.

"Oh, see here, Malfoy!" Potter exclaimed. "Relax a bit! I said I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted," Draco said stiffly, glaring at him before stepping out from behind the counter and beginning to rearrange some Hangover Remedy that he had put out earlier. Obstinately, Potter moved into his peripheral vision. 

"I'll make it up to you," he coaxed.

The statement was not only outrageous, but so light as to sound flirtatious. Draco twitched, knocking a bottle from the shelf. Potter, the bastard, caught it in mid-air and put it back without seeming to notice what he'd done. Draco turned. "How?" he asked suspiciously. 

"Beers at the Leaky Cauldron?" Potter suggested uncertainly. 

"What would I want with _beer_ at the _Leaky Cauldron_?" Draco sneered. 

"Well, with me," Potter returned, smiling again. "Because, you know, perception matters. If you're so concerned about not looking important, that is." 

Draco blinked. Offensive as the circumstance might be, it _would_ improve his reputation to be seen with the greatest hero of the Second Voldemort War. He would rather someplace classier than the Leaky Cauldron, but, as much as it rankled, he couldn't afford anything better. What was in it for Potter, though?

"All right," he said hesitantly. "After work? I get out at five." 

Harry's dimming smile brightened to an all-out grin. "Excellent. Good for you, too, because it will be busy. I'll meet you there!" And with that, and a cheery wave, he was off and out the door. The bell jangled behind him. Draco felt like he'd just been hit by a Bludger. 

 

The Leaky Cauldron wasn't _dirty_ , exactly, but the worn floor and hard wax shine to the tables was just as painfully vulgar as grime, and the windows had a haze of smoke. Shoppers finishing their day out mingled with workers starting their evening. Potter had staked out one of the high, narrow tables in the corner. It would be comfortable for two; later in the evening, a group might give up on seats and squeeze in a third, or even fourth. 

Potter already had a drink -- a dark pint of beer -- and he was chatting easily with a flustered-looking, matronly witch. Draco considered walking out again. Why was he here, anyway? Yes, being seen with Potter might help his social standing, but not with anyone he cared about. 

A second woman walked up and greeted Potter with much fuss, and Draco suddenly considered the other side of that. How would Potter's fans react to him? Smirking, he sauntered across the room. Potter noticed him when he was quite close, and smiled with relief -- not a reaction Draco had ever inspired in him before. 

"Hello, Harry," he said casually, setting his hat to one side of the little table. "Sorry I'm late." 

Harry's smile twitched. The witches were too busy being horrified to notice. "No problem," Potter answered, with only a little rise in pitch indicating a reaction to Draco's use of his name. "I was just talking with these women about Glenda's foster placement effort."

"Ah, of course," Draco said, adopting the touch of concern that might be appropriate for whatever it was that Potter was talking about. He smiled at the wide-eyed witches. "If you ladies don't mind...." 

With subservient nods to Harry and frightened looks at him, they stepped back and then skittered off. 

"Well," Potter said, " _Draco_. Have a seat." 

Smirking, Draco settled onto the stool. "I was hoping to weigh my status of pariah against yours as demi-god, but the results seem inconclusive." 

Potter snorted. "I doubt that most people think as badly of you, or as well of me, as you think." 

"I am quite certain they do." 

Potter twisted his glass in its wet circle on the table top. "My experience is that it's never everybody. It's the loud ones, which _feels_ like everybody when they distrust you." 

"What would you know about people distrusting you?"

Potter raised his eyebrows. "Parselmouth during the whole 'Heir of Slytherin' thing? Wait, does 'Potter stinks' sound familiar?

Draco waved off the comment with a strange twinge of embarrassment. Yes, it had been juvenile, but he'd only been fourteen! Of course, that meant Potter had also been only fourteen. "I suppose," he said. "But you were still _important_." 

"Not something I care about," Potter said, and sounded like he actually meant it.

A young witch came by and asked Draco what he wanted. Clearly, he wouldn't be able to afford anything in that category, so he gestured at Harry's beer and said he would have the same. That got rid of her, but still left him sitting with Potter. 

"So," he asked, "what was that thing you were talking about when I arrived? Fosterage?" 

"Oh, you didn't know?" 

"No idea." 

"You should pay more attention to the news, then," Potter chided. Draco couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "I made the same mistake -- ignoring it when I was-- Well, after I saw Cedric killed and Voldemort return. When things are bad, it's important to know what's going on."

"I read the paper! The main articles and the financial news, at least, and a few other things." He wasn't about to say that most of those other things had Harry's photo over them.

"And after Cedric, I scanned for news of Death Eater attacks. No good. Anyway, this would be further back, or in Society." 

" _That_ is far too depressing." 

"And financial news isn't?" Potter dared to ask. Before Draco could catch his breath to answer, he had moved on. "Anyway, do you know Glenda Fortwright? She's a Wizengamot member from Wessex, and has been working with me, and Hermione, and Andromeda Tonks -- oh, she'd be your aunt, though I'm sure you never met her -- on assistance for war orphans. Glenda and I have been working on encouraging fosterage for school age orphans who may be too old to find adoptive parents, but really only need summer homes and a bit of guidance during the school year."

"How sweet." 

"Don't get so sarcastic." This time, Potter looked like his public image -- righteous and on the edge of dangerous. "We're working with at least four kids you would have known. Brent Rosier? Astoria Greengrass? Harriet and Edward Mossley?"

Draco swallowed hard. He accepted a beer from the barmaid without really seeing it. "Oh. Ours too?"

"They're _children_. I'm not going to punish them for their parents' politics -- or even crimes, though with three of those, it seems to have just been politics." 

"Astoria's not that young."

"She's younger than us, and we were too young!" 

Draco looked down. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes." Tentatively, he took a sip of the beer. It wasn't bad -- much less bitter than he had expected, and he didn't know enough about beer to have opinions about the quality of it. He cleared his throat. "How's Granger?" he asked. Although he tried to sound casual, that got him an odd look from Potter. 

"Fine. How's Goyle?" 

It wasn't a parallel question. 

"I wouldn't know. We hardly speak to each other." 

"Oh. Too bad. Um, Hermione's doing well. She has a few tutors and will be taking her N.E.W.T.s in the spring." Potter grinned. "At least, that's the plan. As dedicated as she is to studying, she keeps getting distracted by social missions -- like the fosterage project."

"And you?" Draco asked. 

"What, will I take my N.E.W.T.s?" 

"Right."

Shrugging, Potter delayed with a swallow of his beer. "I don't know. I don't need a job, and I feel like I'm being productive now, and studying never felt productive to me, the way it does to her." Pushing back his fringe -- the scar was fainter now, Draco thought -- he sat back. "What about you? Do you like Slug and Jigger's?" 

"What would I _like_?" Draco snapped. "Working as a shop boy? Being sneered at by anyone who happens to walk in off the street?"

Potter blinked at him. "I meant working in Potions, of course," he said, looking almost hurt. 

"Oh." Derailed, Draco coughed slightly. "It's fine," he said, trying not to think of how his robes smelled at the end of the day. He hoped his Freshening charm had been sufficient; he could still smell pickled Murtlap, but the odor might be just in his nostrils. 

"Well, you always were brilliant at it." Potter tilted his beer and looked into it. "But you don't seem enthusiastic." 

"Let's say it is not what I was expecting." Bitterly, Draco looked at the young man across from him. When had Potter become self-possessed and socially at ease? "You were impressive yourself, your last year." _Had you always been good? Did Professor Snape invent your incompetence for his own ends?_

Potter chuckled. "I had help." 

"Oh?" That was enough scandal to draw Draco out of his funk. "Not from Granger!"

"Oh no! No, that old book I had? It was _Snape's_ , from when he was a student. It had the most brilliant stuff written in the margins, and most of the formulas improved."

"That's cheating!" Draco couldn't decide whether to be outraged or impressed.

Potter, rather that launching into Gryffindor indignation, waved the matter off. "Yeah, Hermione thought that too, but I don't see why. It was just like having a second text -- but one with a nasty sense of humor, and entertaining enough to read." 

"Still! Did he know?" 

"Slughorn or Snape? Slughorn didn't. Snape found out--" Potter's eyes shifted away and his voice dropped. "Um -- That spell I cut you with? That was his. I didn't know what it would do." 

For a moment, Draco could think of nothing but pain and blood. He clenched his hand around his beer, feeling the sturdy, smooth glass, and forcing himself to focus. "So you thought you'd try it out?" he managed, sounding breathless even to himself. "On me? Most people experiment on bugs and such, you know." 

His face red, Potter nodded. "In my defense, I'd been tortured by Cruciatus before. I reacted. And I'd been wondering about this spell, because it was labeled 'for enemies.' I hadn't _planned_ to try it on you." 

Draco stared. "You're rather not nice, you know." 

"Sometimes," Potter admitted, so quietly that the word was nearly lost in the chatter of people around them. "I do _try_ , though." 

Draco lifted his chin. "I wouldn't know." 

"No, I suppose you wouldn't."

If Potter had argued, Draco might have been able to ignore the memory of Potter coming back through the flames for him. 

"I'm not sure you're suited for politics," he said desperately, and to his surprise, that worked. Potter shook off his melancholy and looked up with a wry smile. 

"And you're not well suited to waiting on customers," he countered. "Though you seemed to enjoy selling me things." 

Draco waved the comment off. "That's just shopping by proxy. _Anyone_ can shop." 

"I can't."

Thankful of the distraction, Draco looked Potter up and down. His outfit really _was_ awful -- cheap street robes open enough to show a shapeless Muggle shirt. "Ah. That ensemble isn't to make the Weasel feel better, then?"

"Prat!" Potter reached across the table and cuffed him on the arm, but not hard. "Show a little respect!" 

"For what?" Draco sneered, and Potter was suddenly serious. 

"For the man who saved Goyle's life," he said quietly. Draco had to look away. 

"Sorry," he forced out, his face heating. "He only did it for you, though." 

Potter was silent. Draco dared a glance up, and found a sour look on Potter's face. His old rival set his glass down as if he might push it away and stand up. 

"I-- I'm being rude again, aren't I?" 

Potter snorted. "Among other things." 

"Mother was furious at me -- after you left. I hadn't thanked you." 

"You still haven't," Potter said, lifting his chin. It changed his rumpled look from unkempt to dangerous. 

"Thank you," Draco said quickly, "for returning my wand. For speaking up for my family, too, although I don't understand why you did." 

Potter rubbed his forehead, darkening his scar and then hiding it behind his fringe. "I didn't want...." He sighed. "You'd had a hard enough time." 

"My father had threatened you -- tried to kill you. _I_ had threatened you." 

"Yes, but... Look, you were young. You didn't really understand, did you? What he was like?"

"Of course not!" 

"Well, there," Potter said, as if he had proved his point. "When you did.... Well, for you, that was brave." 

Draco knew a backhanded compliment when he heard one. "But my father...."

"I didn't want you to lose him. I didn't want you all to lose each other. If we insist on justice, how many people our age will be alone?" 

They sat in silence. Potter's heated assertion, which Draco would have brushed off from a campaign event, was right; many of Draco's classmates would be without families, or at least without fathers, if everyone who had supported the Dark Lord went to prison -- and most would vow vengeance. 

"Some people will hate you anyway," he said softly. "It's ... embarrassing. Being beholden to someone's good graces, I mean." 

Potter shrugged. "That's what you have to live with then." 

Draco couldn't decide if the silence became more or less awkward. 

"So," Potter said doggedly. "You hate my clothes, do you?"

"They are execrable," Draco said baldly, leaping on the change of subject. "You probably lose votes for Shacklebolt every time someone lays eyes on you." 

Potter, far from being offended, grinned. "Do you really think so?"

"Well, no," Draco admitted. "But in certain quarters, _yes_. You accentuate the fear that he will bring further vulgarity to the office -- not himself, of course," he added hastily, for the former Auror's sartorial flair was widely acknowledged, "but in those he might appoint." 

Brow furrowing, Potter looked like he might be considering this. Draco, who had expected scorn or defiance, waited nervously. "Want to take me shopping then?" Potter suggested, and then winced. "Oh -- sorry. I suppose you're working during shop hours." 

"Really!" Draco exclaimed. "It _is_ possible to buy robes after five, you know. Otherwise, everyone in the Ministry would be wearing clothes as ill-fitting as yours." 

"Well, is there any place open now?" 

"If you know where to go, yes." 

"All right, then." 

Potter stood up, but Draco sat back, his arms crossed over his chest. "Why should I help you?" he asked, trying to ignore the tantalizing prospect of choosing Potter's clothes -- and possibly seeing him in fewer of them. 

"Hm." Looking amused, Potter considered this. "Five galleons an hour, to no more than fifteen? And if both Kingsley and Hermione compliment me on at least two outfits, I'll give you a bonus of another ten." 

It was painful that such a sum was irresistible. "It's a deal, Potter," Draco returned, trying not to feel like a whore. 

"Potter? I thought I was Harry now." 

Draco wished the idiot would stop sounding flirtatious. It was completely unfair. 

 

By the end of the evening, Draco had fifteen galleons, Harry had three complete outfits and a number of complimentary pieces, and Draco had grown used to calling Potter 'Harry.'" Had his bonus relied entirely on Shacklebolt, he would have been certain of it, but he had no idea of Granger's tastes. As she was from a Muggle family, there was really no telling. 

 

"Wait a moment." 

Draco had been about to reach for the Floo powder when Harry stopped him. He was rummaging in his shopping. "Here," he said, holding out a rectangle wrapped in tissue paper. "That shirt you liked." 

Draco looked at it suspiciously. Brushed silk of French blue, in a slim, tailored cut.... "Why?" he demanded, and Harry rolled his eyes. 

"Because you'll look lovely in it," he said sarcastically. 

Draco took the shirt, but he wondered if this was just Potter's way of taunting him.

 

When he got home, his mother was sitting on the bench in the entrance hall. She had already set her hat aside, and was embracing him as soon as he finished brushing the ash off his clothes. "Draco! I had expected you hours ago!" 

"I..." Somehow, that hadn't crossed his mind. "I'm sorry, Mother. I should have flooed." 

"Oh, I'm not saying you can't have fun, darling!" She turned her face slightly away, looking back with a sly smile. " _Was_ it fun?" 

"Almost. Potter wanted help buying clothes."

"Oh, good! H--" 

A wet cough interrupted her, alerting Draco to the presence of his father. Apparently, the mention of Harry Potter had been enough to make him choke on his drink.

"Draco...." he began helplessly, but Draco wasn't about to be scolded for consorting with the enemy -- not when it had been his most enjoyable outing in almost a year, and profitable, besides. 

"Don't say it," Draco growled, and stalked off to bed. 

He couldn't sleep until he had wanked to the thought of Potter in those close-cut burgundy trousers. He was trying to humiliate Draco by soliciting him as a whore, not understanding that Draco had no resources to court a wife and might as well go for a romp. Draco feigned reluctance until Harry was pressing him down on a broom, flying amidst flashes of fire and lightning, too far gone to let up until he had given Draco exactly what he wanted. 

 

His ten minutes of indulgent, absurd fantasy left Draco embarrassed at the thought of seeing Harry again. It was a relief when he didn't come into the shop the next day. 

It was _almost_ a relief the day after that. 

It was nerve-wracking by the end of the third day. Draco wondered if Potter was doing this deliberately. That was how he had taken down the Dark Lord, wasn't it? Pretending to be an innocent victim, dragging things out until even Draco's mother played along, and then taking him by surprise. 

It was a clever theory. If Lord Voldemort hadn't occupied his home for months, Draco might even have believed it. 

Nor had his job improved. The eyelid gel in the blue jars had indeed sold better, which Draco would have thought to elevate his standing in the shop. Instead, Mr. Jigger seemed even more likely to keep him out front, hardly letting him brew at all. It was actually more pleasant -- the customers seemed to be growing accustomed to him, and he had leeway to rearrange the stock during the lulls -- but it was also humiliating.

Granger came by that afternoon, picking up Pixie wings, pickled Mandrake, Opaleye shell, and a blue jar of eyelid gel. 

"Hi, Malfoy," she said, more brightly than Draco was comfortable with. She lifted the jar. "Harry says this stuff is brilliant. Has he been by here?" 

"Not today." Draco thought he managed to sound quite normal, considering. 

"Oh. Well, he might be. I lost him in Flourish and Blott's, so he's around somewhere. Do you have any Bruise-B-Gone?" 

"Of course." 

While fetching the potion, Draco wondered if Granger would tell him why Harry-- why _Potter_ had been so friendly. She was a Gryffindor; perhaps a moderately direct approach would work best. 

"I'm curious about something," he said, as he packed up her items to carry.

"Mm?"

"Harry..." He said the name hesitantly, but she didn't seem surprised or upset -- "has been being, well, rather agreeable."

"And?" she prompted.

"I was wondering if you might have any insight as to his reasons."

She made a face, but it resolved into almost a smile. "Harry's reactions to you have never had _anything_ to do with reason, if you ask me. He just tacks those on as he requires. This time, at least, he's not ranting about you, and he doesn't have any House Elves pressed into tailing you, as far as I know, so you're probably safe." She picked up her package. "Oh, and that sage shirt with the russet trousers and jacket is just lovely on him! I'm quite impressed."

"Anyone could see that he'd look good in that," Draco scoffed.

"Right, but you got him to _wear_ it. Do you not mind helping the Rebuilding Britain party, or is that not a concern?"

Rolling his eyes, Draco turned away. "I'm trying to avoid politics, Granger." 

"Well, good. In general, I think people should be civically involved, but in your case, I'll make an exception."

Nose in the air, she departed, leaving Draco wondering if Harry had set House Elves to spying on him at some previous time. 

Harry Fucking Potter finally strolled in, minutes before closing. He was looking quite well put together, which was hardly surprising, as Draco had selected everything he was wearing.

"Hi, Draco," he said breezily, as if they had always been friends. "How've you been?"

"Lovely," said Draco coldly, which made Potter cough down a laugh and jerk his head to the side, flicking his fringe away from his eyes. It was hardly worth wasting intonation on the prat. "What do you need this time?"

"Oh, nothing." Potter reached into a pocket hidden in the drape of his burgundy robes and pulled out a small purse. Draco could hear Mr. Jigger thumping up the stairs. 

"Maybe this isn't--" 

Harry's eyes darted to the opening door, and for a moment, Draco thought he would tuck the purse away. Instead, he continued, projecting more clearly. "Just letting you know you won our bet," he said, tossing the purse down on the counter, where it hit with the satisfyingly heavy clunks of muffled galleons. 

"Why Mr. Potter," Jigger said warmly, as if he hadn't tacitly favored purebloods for all of Draco's life, "how good to see you in my little shop. Mr. Malfoy is treating you well, I hope?"

"Oh, definitely." On the side away from Jigger, Harry winked at Draco. "Don't put him on commission, though -- you'll go broke."

"Mm, yes. I've noticed that he has a talent for selling things." 

Draco wished they wouldn't make fun of him. He told himself he was going to walk away, just as soon as the clock moved one more click over, and his hours were up. Someday, he would have a position in which people respected his talents, and then they'd both regret this.

"Have time for a beer or two?" Potter asked, and Draco drew himself up haughtily. 

"No."

Harry looked almost disappointed, and then satisfyingly awkward. "I was hoping you might give me some advice," he said. "We're hosting a benefit gala -- auction and ball, that sort of thing -- and the decorations--"

"And you wish me to set aside all political considerations and assist you?" 

"It's not that political."

"If you're involved, it's political." 

"Fine. I suppose you're right to some extent, but you didn't mind dressing me, so I'd hoped you'd be willing to consider something further."

Draco thought quickly. Was this an offer of hire? Could he accept that? He no longer cared, really, what party prevailed, or whom they chose as Minister, but if his father found out, the betrayal might finish him off. 

"I might have time to discuss it tomorrow," he said grudgingly. That would give him the evening to decide how far he was willing to go. "I'm expected at home, quite soon."

Harry brightened. "All right. Better go then. Narcissa isn't someone to keep waiting." 

Turning almost before the words were out of his mouth, he left Draco staring at the closing door. 

 

Draco had set the fifteen galleons aside for normal provisions, but he decided the ten should be for frivolities. Retaining five for himself, he went to the butcher and spent much of the rest on a beef rib joint for Sunday. It would make a nice change from chicken and fish. 

Indeed, Mippy exclaimed over the prize, and after his shower, Draco sauntered down to dinner with a feeling of accomplishment, ready to face another breaded fillet of sole. 

"How was your day, darling?" his mother asked, as he tasted the chilled potato soup. She was wearing a jaunty green velvet hat decorated with spatters of gold and the eye of a peacock feather. 

Draco shrugged. "About as usual." 

"Did Harry stop by?"

"Mother!" Draco darted a quick look at his father, but the man was steadily eating his soup, as if his wife had not just mentioned the heart of the opposition with easy familiarity.

"Well, those burgundy robes were so _elegant_ on him. Of course, it made more sense when he told me they were your choice. I told them he _must_ wear them to the upcoming benefit. Do you think you could coax him to a stylist before then?"

Draco's throat choked with the sheer number of questions that wanted to come out. How had his mother seen Harry today? He didn't think she went out, although that possibility was certainly less alarming than that of Harry visiting the Manor while he was away. And why would she want a liberal Muggle-loving half-blood to look his best for a benefit? 

"Benefit?" he managed dumbly. 

Mippy took soup bowls as his mother nodded brightly. "For Glenda's fosterage project, you know. Merlin knows that she and I have scarcely ever had a cause in common, but here one is!" She sighed, readjusting her hat. "Harry's invited me to attend, of course, but I'm not certain that I'm up to it."

"Oh, go, Mother!" Draco urged, schooling himself not to look at his father. This went beyond politics. He didn't care if the man disapproved, if it got his mother back into society. "You can wear one of those lovely hats." 

"If it wasn't for Andri...." She sighed. "Perhaps I will, darling. Since I've donated two of them."

His father moved, and Draco expected an explosion, but he was just setting down his wine and reaching for the main serving platter. "I hardly think your former sister will assault you in public, my dear," he rasped, as he lifted the cover from a magnificent roast bird. "Pheasant, anyone?" 

"Pheasant!" Draco exclaimed. "How did we get that?" He had thought pheasant was more expensive than chicken. 

His father sat back with more confidence than Draco had seen him all year. "I took a walk this morning," he said casually. His eye took on a once-familiar dangerous glint. "Startled it." 

Draco blinked. Of course there were wild pheasant on the grounds, and the bird was where the meat came from. He gazed at the crisp, caramel skin of the bird on the table, his mouth watering. They had deer as well, which meant venison. And didn't they have apple trees by the north wall? 

"Oh." Recovering his manners, he nodded. "It looks delicious." 

It was delicious, but Draco recalled the conversation and could scarcely swallow around his worries. After a few bites, he dared to give one of them voice. 

"Mother. Harry wanted my advice on a benefit. This one, do you think?" 

"You didn't ask?"

"We didn't really have time for details. I was assuming it was some Rebuilding Britain function, which would be problematic, of course." 

His mother lifted a delicate hand dismissively. "I don't see why. They would hardly be worse than the alternatives."

"But Mother! They support non-discrimination protections for Muggleborns, and--" 

His father set his cutlery down with a clatter.

"Draco," his mother said plainly. "The world has changed." 

"I know," Draco whispered, staring at his plate. They were going to start shouting at each other. There was no chance that Father would ignore this.

"Harry thinks he could work quite well with you. I believe you should listen to his offer and give it real consideration." 

Draco couldn't stop himself. He turned to his father. The brief swagger from his hunting prowess had vanished beneath the haunted mien that had clung to him since Azkaban, and he looked at Draco like something he had lost. Worse yet was the way his mouth started to open and then closed again, as if Draco didn't know that his father would be horrified to have him working for the enemy. As if silence would help. 

"Say it!" he snapped, his patience finally breaking. 

For a moment, his father's eyes closed, that terrible weakness flooding his face, and then they opened, and his chin lifted, his eyes narrowing almost as they used to when Draco was about to get a scathing reprimand. 

"You would be a fool not to seize this opportunity." 

Draco coughed. His breath had caught on nothing. 

"You _want_ me to help Kingsley Shacklebolt get elected Minister?" Draco stared. "He hates us! He cited you in at least one speech as an example of dedicated and ferocious promotion of a pervasive wrong." 

"Yes." His father's chin lifted. His eyes looked almost clear. "He was right. It was a folly. I was a fool. There is no reason for you to drown clinging to a golden anchor." 

Shaken, Draco looked away. He felt he had indeed lost an anchor, and been cut adrift. "I'll have to think about it," he said, pushing back from the table. "Excuse me." 

"Draco!" his mother appealed, as he came to his feet. 

"No, Mother." He forced himself to breathe. "Have Mippy set some dinner aside for me. I can't enjoy it right now." 

As the door closed, he heard glass shatter behind him. 

 

 

 

### Conclusions: 

The Four of Cups, by its nature, is not a card that offers a conclusion. However, stories should. At this point, therefore, I offer four epilogues. Chose the one you like best. 

 

 

_Epilogue One: The Cup Spilled_

 

"Hi, Malfoy." 

Potter had paused by where Draco was setting out new tropical stock -- hippocampus and mermaid scales, runespoor eggshells (eggs and two heads were secured behind the counter), and parrot tree buds that squawked if he squeezed them too tightly. 

"If you're looking Alertness Elixir, you know where it is." 

Potter sighed. "Right. So that's not why I'm standing here." 

Draco glanced back. "Look, Potter -- I told you 'no'. Clearly, your man will become Minister, but that doesn't mean I want to have had anything to do with it."

"Okay." Potter's shoes squeaked on the floor as he shifted. "I, er, I'm running for a Wizengamot seat."

"Congratulations." 

"Right." He sighed again. "Look. Your mum's backed off on the hat thing--"

"I have never _in my life_ called Mother ' _mum_.'"

"Fine. _Narcissa_ had an offer in fashion design -- some fancy boutique that wanted to sell her originals, and she won't take it because she says it upsets you." 

Draco actually twisted to glare at him. "It upsets me."

"Why?"

"Because it's bad enough having one of us in trade, and I _won't_ have her demean herself that way. I can take care of things." 

Potter was silent. Draco waited for him to argue, to ask why he was still here, to ask if he was a journeyman yet. He didn't. After a minute, Draco heard his footsteps fading away. 

 

 

_Epilogue Two: The Cup Stolen_

 

Draco paused at the window of the shop, looking in an almost familiar stylish hat that sat jauntily on a silver goblet. If it wasn't one of his mother's creations, it was by one of her imitators. He looked to the brim and found the crystal that would dangle over the left ear. A genuine Narcissa Malfoy hat, he thought, with a little sniff. He had known they were sold in Paris, but that wasn't the same as seeing one here.

The Fosterage Project Benefit auction had been a breakthrough for his mother. She had told Draco that was why she had contributed to it in the first place -- as a way to establish herself as a designer. It might even have been true. 

But then there had been his father's hunting accident -- unless it was suicide. After all, who was stupid enough to try to fish by firing curses at sunlit water? And shortly thereafter had come the day that Draco was fired for calling a customer a stupid old biddy. He had Apparated onto the grounds at noon to find Potter sitting on the bench swing in the rose garden, with his robes rucked up, and his head back, and Draco's mother riding him hard. He had no idea whether that had started before his father had died or after, but when he had raged at them both, an offensively unflustered Potter had taken him aside, told him not to upset his mother, and suggested he take a vacation. 

So here he was, vacationing on Potter's money. He wasn't sure he would ever go back.

 

 

_Epilogue Three: The Cup just out of reach_

 

Ron Weasley grabbed Draco by the collar and shoved him up against the chapel door. "Stop insulting my sister." 

"There's nothing _wrong_ with her--"

"You just don't think she's good enough for Harry," Ron mocked. "Well she _is_ , so shut it." 

"To be fair, I hardly consider _anyone_ good enough for Harry," Draco pointed out. He didn't even consider _himself_ good enough for Harry, he knew, so the bride was out of the question. "I recognize that Ginevra is at least intelligent and a good Quidditch player, so I don't fully despise her."

"How generous of you."

"Yes, I thought so myself. Now," he said, drawing himself up, "don't throw people into the flowers, or even the ribbons. The future Mrs. Potter and I may not get along, but she'll hardly be grateful if you make a mess of her wedding before it starts."

Ron Weasley growled, but he backed off. "And it wouldn't look good for your business, I expect." 

With that, he turned and stalked away. 

_Two hundred galleons_ , Draco told himself. _You're getting two hundred galleons for this, and Harry still likes you, and if you don't fuck it up, it will bring in business for life. You can survive eight hours of the best man._

 

 

_Epilogue Four: The Cup Shared_

 

"Do you regret it?" 

You couldn't tell Harry's eyes were green in this light. The celebratory magical fireworks, exploding harmlessly all around them, made them gleam with every color of the rainbow. 

"Not at all." Draco took a deep breath, trying to force his heartbeat to steady. "I feel ... free." 

Harry stepped closer. In the shadow of Draco's face, his eyes were black. "Good." He glanced out the open center of the platform. Think anyone can see us here?"

"Pfft. The crew, if they bothered to look."

"Good," Harry repeated, and he leaned closer. Draco started to twist his head, thinking Harry intended to whisper something to him, but Harry caught his chin and guided it back. Their lips met, and Draco's brain melted. It wasn't until Harry stopped that he was able to register _Harry Potter kissed me in the wings for the Rebuild Britain victory celebration_ , and it took several seconds more to add the more sober _in secret_. 

This time, Harry leaned to the side, and it was to whisper -- or at least, to speak at a volume that would have been drown out at any further range by the cheering, now that Kingsley was walking on to the makeshift stage.

"I'd do it in public," he said. "Just so you know."

 

 


End file.
